


Character Stain

by botanicalsock



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-15 23:30:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7243228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/botanicalsock/pseuds/botanicalsock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris, Dean, and Chris' twenty thousand dollar carpet. Set after last week's Smackdown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Character Stain

Dean's wandering around backstage, and he might tell himself he's not looking for anyone in particular, that he's just coming down after the match, working off the nervous energy, but that would, of course, be a lie.

He's aware he really should stop all this shit with Jericho, mostly because the guy's so ridiculous that there's no challenge at all in riling him up. It's way too easy, Dean knows, but sometimes even Dean likes easy. Especially now, with Seth being back and Roman being Roman, and that briefcase hanging over the ring with its tantalizing contents and all that they could mean.

But Dean doesn't want to think about that, so he keeps on until he finally finds Chris in a back room somewhere. He's with his carpet, his precious _twenty thousand dollar_ carpet and he's got himself all set up with a bucket and a little brush and is on his knees, scrubbing vigorously at the stain from Dean's coffee while muttering angrily under his breath, and Dean would laugh except that would defuse the whole rivalry thing they've got going on. And right now, Dean _needs_ this, this antagonism.

He leans casually up against the door frame, watching Chris' ass move as he goes to town on the carpet. He's got a pretty good ass, considering, Dean muses to himself. Not the best, but not bad. He coughs politely, and Chris looks at him, the expression on his face one of pure, almost ludicrous rage.

"Twenty thousand dollars, Ambrose," he says, voice low and venomous. "Serengeti _yak's hair."_

Dean doesn't reply, watching as Chris turns back to the carpet. "As a multi-millionaire, shouldn't you have like, servants who clean shit for you?" he finally asks.

"If you want something done right, you do it yourself," Chris snaps in reply.

Dean nods slowly, then adds, "Also, there are no yaks in the Serengeti."

"What?"

"There are no yaks in the Serengeti."

"I know that, you moron." Chris sits up, but he doesn't stand up, still on his knees, facing Dean. And Dean likes seeing Chris on his knees, though the sight is kind of spoiled by the fact he's still talking. "Serengeti Yak," Chris continues, in that sanctimonious tone of his, "doesn't mean a yak from the Serengeti. Serengeti Yak is the name of the yak, it's the _species."_

"The _species,_ oh," says Dean. "So why is it called the Serengeti Yak when it's not from the Serengeti?"

"I don't know, I didn't name the yak."

"Okay, but you know there's no such thing as a Serengeti Yak."

"If there's no such thing as a Serengeti Yak, then how I do have a carpet made of Serengeti Yak hair?" Dean shrugs in reply, and Chris glares at him. "And since when are you the yak expert?

"I'm not a yak expert," Dean says. "It's just common sense."

"Sense," Chris scoffs. "Like you and _any_ kind of sense are acquainted." He stands up now, wincing slightly. He's back in his jeans and vest, but there's no scarf. Dean misses the scarf.

"So," he says, "with the carpet and the jacket, that's what, thirty five grand?"

"Believe me, it's far more than that with everything of mine you've destroyed."

"You keeping track? You got like a spreadsheet or something?"

"Oh, I'm keeping track, _Dean,_ and believe me your bill is coming due." Chris nods, pointing his finger at Dean, and just very slightly nearer, Dean thinks, and he could bite it, snap his teeth and watch Chris flinch away. "I'll be collecting soon enough."

"How about now?"

"What?"

"Why don't you collect now?"

"What are you talking about?"

Dean closes the door behind him, holding Chris' gaze as he takes one step forward, then another. He grabs Chris' wrist, and for a moment he resists, but Dean doesn't let go and Chris relaxes enough that Dean can drag his hand to his crotch, hold it against his hard on.

Chris stares back at him with cool, appraising eyes, and for a long moment, everything feels very, very still, the room perfectly silent. Until Chris lunges forward, gripping Dean's shoulder at just the right angle and getting him spun around. His arm is twisted up behind his back, and then his feet are kicked out from under him, his face slammed into the carpet, which, Dean notes, is most definitely polyester. Chris is on top of him, weight pressing down on to him, and Dean can hear him unbuckling his belt, shoving down his jeans. "This is what you want, isn't it, Ambrose?" he says. "This is what you've always wanted."

Dean just laughs, getting his hips up enough that he can slide his free hand under himself, open his own jeans and as soon as he does, Chris pulls them down from behind. His cock is pressed against Dean's ass and he's immediately grinding up against him, still keeping his grasp on Dean's arm, giving it a vicious twist.

Dean gasps at the wrench in his shoulder, but the pain only makes it better. Pain always makes it better, in Dean's opinion, and he needs _something_ but he's pretty sure he'll have no dick left if he tries to rub off on this shitty carpet. He shifts a little, and Chris gives him enough room that he can get his hand on his cock.

The need is surprisingly urgent, and he doesn't take long, coming just as he hears Chris let out an ugly grunt, hot wetness splashing onto Dean's back. Chris rolls off him, releasing him, and Dean stands up.

"Oops," he says, gesturing down, all exaggerated fake innocence. "Looks like I stained your carpet again."

"Of _course_ you did." Chris scowls, watching as Dean pulls up his jeans.

"See you on Sunday, then," he says.

"You'll see my fist in your face, you idiot," Chris replies, and while there's not anything that Dean would label as affection in his tone, there's definitely slightly less resentment than normal.

 _Huh,_ Dean thinks. He grins, giving Chris a quick wink and heads out, not closing the door behind him.

"I mean it," he hears Chris bellow after him. "Twenty thousand dollars, Ambrose," comes the voice, but Dean just smiles and keeps walking.


End file.
